


Swesson Love Week Collection

by DickBaggins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Dean, Dirty Talk, Dom Dean, Dom/sub Undertones, Drunk Sex, Exhibitionism, Exhibitionist Dean, M/M, Masturbation, Power Bottom Dean, Rimming, Role Reversal, Roleplay, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Roleplay, Sub Sam, Sugar Daddy, Swesson Love Week, Top Sam, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 13:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7620556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DickBaggins/pseuds/DickBaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had the wonderful fortune to participate in Swesson Love Week this round! Here are the seven pieces I wrote for adoredean.tumblr.com</p>
<p>This first sees Sam and Dean and their normal filthy Monday lunch routine, where Sam makes Dean jerk himself off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Monday.

Monday's the day people drag ass into the office nursing weekend-long hangovers, fresh injuries, bad attitudes.

Not Dean Smith.

Dean loves Mondays, loves the routine of Mondays. The morning of catch-up keeps him only a little busier than a normal morning and he likes that, makes the time fly before lunch.

God, Dean loves lunch on Mondays.

11:59am and his doorway fills up with broad shoulders and khaki, with Sam Wesson's half-smile and his easy demeanor and Dean's dick jerks to life already.

Always.

“Lunch?” Sam asks, eyebrows shooting up like it's even a question.

Dean's getting to his feet quick and trying to look casual but it's never casual. He wants to get there like, yesterday, to their booth in the back of the bar.

“Of course,” he answers, slipping out from behind his desk with his back to Sam, throwing his jacket back on. “Same place?”

“Sure, if you want.”

It's a bit of a game; it's always the same place, it's always the same thing in the same place but they pretend like there's other options.

“I do,” Dean says, walks up to Sam and he doesn't move, stands huge in the doorway and Dean huffs out a hot breath just staring at him. He seems so much bigger sometimes, it's impossible. It makes Dean leaky and teenage-horny and no one can see, definitely, so he flattens his palm against Sam's chest, spreads his fingers out.

Sam's smile goes crooked and he puffs up even bigger somehow. “Starting early?”

Dean ducks his head to hide the faint red creeping across his cheeks and brushes past Sam, determined _not_ to show him that yes, it _is_ starting early and even the short drive to the bar is going to be a messy disaster.

The only thing worse than driving with a hard-on is driving with someone pointedly ignoring it. But this is not unusual.

Sam follows behind him the entire time; the short walk from the parking lot down the darkish hall to the backroom of the bar, standing just a hair too close so Dean feels him breathing, can almost feel the swell of his chest against his back. Dean wants to just swerve, press himself against a wall so Sam drapes onto him but there's a hostess and they're walking and it's in _public_ so they can't.

Usually.

Dean sits on the side facing the action, so he can stake out the movements in the bar. So he knows when to stop or start.

Sam waits until their drinks come, beer because it's cheat day and one or two at lunch won't tank productivity. That's not what does it. He waits and wraps his long fingers around the bottle, tips it up into his mouth without taking his eyes off of Dean.

Dean feels pinned down in the best way like that, nearly breathless for nothing happening, mouth fixed in a pretty pink circle while he waits. He's better at waiting now.

“So,” Sam starts, casually picking at the label on the beer bottle, “You got hard the second I saw you. What's up with that?”

It's like a punch to the gut and Dean's dick twitches so hard he swears it nearly whacks the underside of the table, nearly bursts through the soft dress pants.

“It's Monday?” he answers, with a grimace of a smile and a shrug.

“Uh huh. What if I didn't do it?”

Dean raises his eyebrows. Tries not to look like that would be the biggest blow to his week, the worst thing that could ever, ever happen. “Honestly, I'd still probably crank one out under the table.”

“Seriously?”

_Maybe_.

Dean shrugs, takes a long pull of the beer. Would he? Really? “Uh, yeah. I would.”

“God, you're - “

Oh, it's coming and Dean tenses waiting for it, like time slows down and he's on the edge of a cliff and -

“You're such a slut, Dean.”

Sam's eyes sparkle with mischief, lust, and his body oozes control.

Dean groans and chomps on his bottom lip, hips jerking under the table but both hands firmly on top. Waiting, waiting.

“I know,” he breaths out in a rush, “I know I am. What do you want me to do?”

“You can touch yourself. I know you have to.”

Dean's hand flies under the table, knuckles scraping against it in his haste but he doesn't feel it, doesn't feel anything but the slight relief of his fist through his soft pants. He looks pleadingly at Sam, wants more directions immediately.

“Still hard?”

Dean nods, squeezes again and a groan sticks in his throat.

“Good. Take it out. No panties, right? We talked about that.”

“Nothing,” Dean gasps and it's going so fast today, moving breakneck. Usually there's a few minutes until Sam makes him start in earnest but no, it's all movement today and Dean couldn't be happier. He fixes his eyes on Sam while he strokes slow, so dangerous in public, so dangerous to do this on a schedule but here they are. Again.

“Good boy. Did you think about this? About me talking you off?”

“Yeah,” Dean moves faster already, “Like all weekend.”

“And?”

“Fuck, and what?”

“And how many times did you jerk off about it?”

Sam knows him way too well, uncomfortably well and Dean has major love hate about that. Shouldn't he be able to jerk it at home to whatever he wants? Yeah, but then he always ends up telling Sam everything. Every time.

“Five,” Dean forces out, tallying it up in his head. He wants to close his eyes and lose himself in the increasingly slick stroking of his hand but he can't; Sam's demanding hazel eyes stick him in place, flatten him out and he spills the truth everywhere. “Two just...just my hand. I was looking at those pictures you took.”

“Hmm, the pictures?” Sam feigns confusion and tilts his head puppylike and too sweet for the situation. “Refresh my memory.”

“The ones you took,” Dean grits his teeth, doesn't bother with an argument that'll go nowhere, not when he likes recounting the filth as much as Sam. “Where...where I'm bent over the car in the garage.”

“Oh, those,” Sam grins, settles back and makes a show of dragging his tongue over his bottom lip, staring piercing at Dean. “Yeah, those ones are like, the absolute apex of slutty, aren't they? You begged me for the entire twenty minutes it took to take them. Sounded real good.”

Dean actually whines, speeds his hand up and his dick pulses hard in his hand and how does Sam _do this_? Get him dangerously close with nothing more than a glance and a few words and _god_ , Dean Smith loves this shit.

“Of course, this is slutty too. You beating off under the table. Anyone could see. _Anyone_ could walk by and hear your filthy little noises and then they'd probably just throw money at you or something, trying to buy such a good whore. But then they don't know.”

Dean's panting now and Sam isn't even filthy, not as dirty as he can get but _oh god_ , he's going to say it, and Dean's writhing waiting for it.

Sam leans over, that grin all wolfish, completely predatory and he says, “They don't know the slut is mine.”

And Dean jerks hard, his body folding nearly in two while his dick shoots under the table, messes the underside up sticky and it drips down onto his fist again and his pants are _black_ and this is a mess, this is always such a mess and he's still panting while the waiter brings their food, still sitting with his hand around his spent dick when the burger plunks down in front of him.

Sam mutters a thanks for both of them. And Sam eats his meal with that same predator-grin, biting into food like Dean wants him to bite him.

Monday afternoons are usually a wash, because Dean cannot stop thinking about that _look_. About next Monday. About how goddamned good that kid can make him come without even touching him.

Dean Smith is pretty sure he is exactly a slut.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Smith flubs Sam's coffee order and is made to pay for it later.

 

Dean doesn't do it on purpose, there's just a lot of stuff going on. More people than usual cram onto his floor for this weekend bonding thing and it's mandatory and no one looks happy. But fuck everyone else anyway because he can't stop staring, as usual, at Sam Wesson, who magically worms his way into Dean's group once the over-enthusiastic team spirit host splits them all up.

An hour of trust building and spilling half-truths and Dean offers to make a coffee run. Certainly not because he wants to stand in front of Sam, too close, to take his order. Dean barely even hears it. Dean can't decipher what he wrote down. Dean is just a little screwed.

He takes a leap of faith and gets Sam an extra large light and sweet, hands it over with fluttery nerves in the pit of his stomach and _why_? It's just a fucking coffee order and if it's wrong – oh it's definitely wrong – what's Wesson going to do?

Yeah. It's wrong.

Sam takes a drink and pulls a face and very nearly spits the coffee out and Dean's face heats up crimson.

Shit.

Sam doesn't say anything but Dean sees this dark little catch in his eyes, dangerous. Real dangerous.

Two hours until lunch and it can't come fast enough. Trust falls, actual honest to god trust falls and Dean's usually into all this shit but he cannot concentrate, not for the life of him.

They've trucked in subs but Dean's got his own stuff in the fridge and its actually kind of a relief to leave the floor to get it, to blanket himself in quiet for thirty blissful minutes. Maybe forty-five if he can stretch it out.

The door clicks shut behind him when he's cranking the toaster oven and he doesn't even get a turn in before a body pins him against the counter, smoothly gathering up his hands behind his back. Long hair tickles over Dean's neck and that's how he knows.

“I didn't mean to get it wrong, I swear,” he pants out, scrambling to explain already without being asked.

“Uh huh,” Sam drawls low, right up against his ear. His other hand is already pawing Dean's chest under the sky-blue v-neck, so hard the fabric scrunches up, “Well, you fucked it up. I thought you wrote it down, so...”

Dean winces, doesn't mean to rock back against Sam's big body but he does it anyway. “I got distracted?” he offers, and feels Sam's chest rumble in a laugh against his back.

“By what?” Sam sort of sing-songs it, his hand scraping lower and settling against the waistband of his jeans. “Just you and me, wasn't it?”

“Yeah,” Dean breaths out, sighing and shutting his eyes, letting his weight sag back against Sam's solid chest, “You distracted me.”

Sam likes that, laughs again and shoves until Dean's bent over, his chest against the counter, ass stuck out and pushing ceaselessly into Sam's crotch and goddammit, he's never going to hear the end of that either. “Aw, did I? How?”

Dean groans, hopes he can get out of it by grinding, yeah, that oughta work, but Sam shoves forward with his hips and pins Dean still, rubs his very obvious boner against the soft material of Dean's jeans and Dean swears he can feel the heat. “You're fucking hot? What do you want me to say?”

“That,” Sam growls, diving forward and latching onto the back of Dean's neck with his mouth, teeth barely digging in, just enough to make Dean's dick fill up all the way, dizzyingly fast.

Dean never gets to eat his sandwich, and it's really totally okay.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sam hacks Dean's computer to display their porn collection, which is entirely videos and pictures of Dean.

This was way too easy. Sam Wesson sat back in his chair and smirked, hitting the enter key with a calm flourish. The little program started up and he sighed happily, waiting.

He didn't have to wait long.

His phone rang, short pulses that meant it was an internal call, which meant it worked.

Which meant...

“This is Sam Wesson,” he answered, voice lower than usual because he knew who it was.

“What the hell did you do to my computer?”

Sam held in his laugh. “What? What's wrong with your computer? You know, you should call IT about that.”

“You are IT.”

“Oh, no, see, I'm tech support. There's a difference. It's _real_ subtle but I can explain it to you, if you've got time.”

“Just get up here, Wesson.”

And the line clicked dead.

Sam swooped up his stuff, figuring he'd be up there for the long haul, and whistled his way to the elevator.

 

Dean Smith slammed the phone back in the cradle and ran his hand through his hair, puffing out a shaky breath. The memo he'd been working on was gone, replaced with porn. Homemade porn. Grainy, slightly badly framed porn and that wasn't even the worst part.

It was him.

It was Dean on his back in one window, sliding a thick pink vibrator in and out of his ass, his eyes all half-lidded and staring at the camera.

No. Not the camera. He'd been staring at Sam behind the camera, pleading with his eyes for something more than just a buzzing piece of plastic.

Dean shuddered a little though, remembering how good it felt, how powerful that stupid thing was. It didn't make him feel as full as Sam did but he'd come without a hand on his dick anyway, which was just where the porn was right now.

He'd watched it before, of course, that was the point. Watched it while bouncing in Sam's lap, telling him how much better his huge cock was than the toy, than any toy, than anything in the fucking world.

So that was one corner. Top right.

Bottom right...that flickered a slideshow of pictures. Sam actually bought an expensive camera just for this, just to show Dean how pretty he was when he was writhing and moaning and dolled up in all these outfits. All this lingerie. And now...now all those pictures were flashing in quick succession on his fucking work monitor, all the memories dredged up along with them and oh, goddamn, he was getting hard.

How did Wesson always manage to do this to him? How did he find new ways to ruin his shit on the regular?

Bottom left. That was an even grainier video from the time in the park. Dean on his knees in the dirt and Sam leaning against a tree and Dean's mouth absolutely full. He remembered the stretch of his mouth, obscene and filthy and just a little painful in the best kind of way. Sam made him look up at the cmaera, yeah, there it was, and if there was audio, it'd be even worse because Sam hadn't shut up the whole time, a litany of _yeah that's it, fucking choke down that dick, gonna make me come down your throat and you better get it all in there, better not spill a fucking drop or I'll-_

And Dean was so into that so hard, hearing Sam in his mind and palming himself through his chalkstripe grey pants when Sam pushed his door open. Dean gasped, his hand thumping onto the desk, automatically clenching around his mouse but fuck, there was no stopping this cavalcade of filth on his monitor.

“So what seems to be the problem?” Sam said, shutting the door behind him, eyebrows raised.

Like he didn't already know.

But fuck, how to play this? Dean hadn't even thought about it, hadn't had a moment to consider what turns to take and now here was Sam, huge and beautiful and fucking smirking like he owned the world, striding over towards Dean's desk and he'd _see_.

Dean couldn't muster a single word.

Sam crept up behind him, bent over so his hair brushed at Dean's ear, chuckling low when he saw the monitor. “Oh shit, what's going on here?”

“Sam,” Dean gritted his teeth, nervously rubbing his palms against his thighs, “Come on, you did this.

“Hmm, it's not really in my tech support wheelhouse. But wow, who's the pretty boy?”

Dean frowned, swallowed a groan at the name. _Pretty_ always ruined him, especially the way it dripped out of Sam's mouth.

Sam perched on the arm of Dean's chair, took over the mouse and slid it up to the top left corner, which was the worst, by far. That was...Dean had to collect himself just to look and he felt his dick leak against his thigh just seeing it.

Top left corner, that was a revoltingly clear video, professionally slick. Side view. Dean on his knees, his chest pressed into the bed, head turned towards the camera. And Sam behind him, cracking his hand over Dean's ass before he pushed his cock in, slower than he had to because they'd stretched Dean all afternoon, fingers and toys and Sam's slick pink tongue and then a vibrating plug while Sam set the camera array up.

Sam worked it so he begged, of course, so pretty and nice for the camera and Dean kind of wished he could hear it.

“Looks kinda like someone wanted it _bad_ up there. Wonder what it sounds like?”

Sam just stroked a few buttons and it all became dangerously loud. Dean thought for a horrible second that it was all three streams together, a combination of all his sex noises but..but no, all that moaning, that was just one video.

“Sounds good,” Sam said, “What d'you think?”

Dean deflated, groaning and smashing his forehead into Sam's broad shoulder. He'd hide there, yeah, until the videos stopped, until this cruel ridiculous stunt was over and done with and he could get back to his memo. Except...

“Did you lock the door?”

“Mhmm.”

Dean winced a little, sat up straight and tugged off his tie and slithered onto the floor, into the wide space underneath his desk, blinking up at Sam, hoping it was pretty.

“Yeah?” Sam grinned at him, all dimples and darkening eyes, sliding into Dean's chair and spreading his legs wide and god, if Dean were more in charge, he'd call Sam eager, maybe a little whorish himself but he didn't want to waste his breath.

In no time at all, Sam's dick was out and jammed in his mouth and Dean hummed around it like candy, never ever wanted anything more.

Well.

Maybe Sam pulling his phone out and aiming it down at Dean, maybe that was the only other thing he really, really wanted.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the boys engage in some role reversal, with Dean playing tech support and Sam playing pervy boss with some D/s undertones.

This isn't the weirdest thing they've done. Definitely not. But it's up there.

Dean picks at the collar on his yellow polo shirt, scowling a little, wondering how Sam puts up with the stuffy fabric day after day. Maybe he can get that commuted to something a little more flattering. But then...Sam does look incredible even in the slightly gaudy shade. The neck never really does up right on Sam's shirt, and it stretches tight across his pecs, gets all baggy where he's got that tiny waist and Dean is so goddamned unfocused right now.

“Man up, Smith,” he mutters to himself, clenches his jaw and smooths the pleats in his pants. They're only going to stay like that for like, five more minutes. If that.

He knocks on his own apartment door, weird but slightly thrilling too, sees the crack of light on the floor darken and it swings open and _holy fucking shit._

It occurs to him that he hasn't actually seen Sam in a suit before. Or even a suit jacket. Or even a fucking _tie_ but no one has ever worn anything better, Dean knows that for certain.

“Hey, Dean, get in here,” Sam grins and Dean barely hears it over objectifying the fuck out of him.

He's dressed exactly like Dean in a normal, run of the mill end of the day scenario, slate grey pants with a crisp center line, except they're so much longer, making Sam's legs look impossibly long. White shirt undone at the top, blue stripes, darer blue tie loose. Fucking suspenders.

Dean can't believe this shit.

How his shoulders pop out under the navy straps.

And that they even fucking come in Sam's size.

And Dean can't believe he isn't on his knees yet already.

That's not the plan though. This is supposed to be an even switch, supposed to be _Sam_ begging for it in all kinds of new and creative ways but fuck _everything_ , he looks so good wrapped in that expensive suit, nearly dishevelled. Dean hasn't seen his hair parted like this before either, to the side and slightly swooping back and wow, Dean gets the strongest urge to bend right over in the doorway.

“Hey yourself,” he musters, sweeping past Sam and clutching his laptop bag near his crotch just in case. “So...where's that printer?”

The door shuts quick and Dean jumps a bit, feeling Sam creep up behind him. “Are you really here for the printer?”

Dean sucks in a sharp breath but nods, spinning around. Chest to chest and Sam's eyes rake over him and that light-headed feeling jerks his dick to life so yeah, he made the right call with the bag.

“Yeah,” Dean huffs out, doesn't move back like he'd ordinarily do. “You said it was busted and you'd give me a few hours of overtime?” Dean manages that part smooth and a little contrary and he's proud of keeping it together for even a sentence.

Sam stares at him down, makes his heart race like crazy but _wow_ , he breaks first with a disappointed glare, gesturing towards Dean's at home office. “Right there,” Sam mutters, chasing it with a smile that showcases his perfect teeth, his stunning dimples.

Dean really wants to bend over the desk he's walking towards; they've even done it there before with porn going on his computer and once or twice with the webcam on and now is _not_ the time to be thinking of that.

“Alright,” Dean mutters, slings his bag off his shoulder. It's nice to take a breath here like this, leaning over the printer and not looking at Sam for a second. If he looks, he's going to cave. “What was the issue?”

When he looks over his shoulder, he finds Sam's eyes on his ass, his face heating up while Sam pretends like he's embarrassed. Dean knows he isn't, never would be, but there's something endearingly hot about the pretending. And Sam doesn't say anything. Which is kind of perfect.

Dean stands and shoots his eyebrows up and tilts his head and walks the few steps that separate them, flattening his palms on Sam's chest and not stopping until they're nearly face to face. “You just can't help yourself, can you?” he says, steely and a little growly. “If I hadn't turned around, was your hand gonna be on my ass? Come on, Wesson.”

_Wow, that feels good._

Sam blinks his adorable disbelief and sinks into something else, back into the embarrassment that makes Dean stand up straighter and _push_.

“Your printer's fine, by the way,” he nearly snarls and Sam steps back. “So now you owe me.”

That Sam doesn't say anything, that he stares and stumbles, well, that's pretty great. Not that Dean's ever _wanted_ to shut Sam up but the surge of power is just delightful. Dean's advanced again, herding Sam to the couch and pushing him down more easily than he'd ever believed.

Sam looks so fucking pretty though, mouth wet and open, eyes upturned and sweet, still silent but panting quietly. Dean grabs at his chin, gentle-rough, and tips his head up even more.

“I don't want overtime,” he says, sinking one knee down on the couch and lowering the other so slow, his thighs quiver, “I want something else.”

“What?” Sam finally says, breathing it out as Dean's mouth veers closer so he feels it more than hears it, full of hopeful question that makes Dean _want_.

Dean hums in thought first, tilting his head to the side before he kisses Sam hard, looping his arm around Sam's long neck. “You just sit back,” Dean mutters slick and hot against Sam's mouth, “Don't even have to do anything. But I am going to have your big cock. Not sure how much to equal my wasted time. Might have to be all weekend.”

Sam groans and bucks up into him and it's the most out of control Dean has ever, ever seen him. It's completely delicious.

Dean absolutely speeds through everything, sinking between Sam's legs, nuzzling at his dick through those soft wool pants. And holding his hips down while he starts to work on his dick, not letting Sam move any way he doesn't want.

He doesn't let Sam come yet either, feels him getting twitchy and close and Dean pulls off for his balls instead, making a show of mouthing at them, of chuckling and grinning at Sam's swearing. “Didn't really think I'd let you shoot in my mouth, did you? Oh, Sammy. No way, we're saving it up.”

Dean makes Sam watch while he strips and preps and he's so goddamned good, he doesn't move at all; Dean nearly wants him to, wants to see him break and shove forward and punch right in to his tight ass but he just sits and grips the couch and squeezes his angry-red dick and dutifully watches Dean work himself open on his fingers, arched over the arm of the couch.

“This is mean,” Sam hisses through clenched teeth and a flexing jaw.

Dean drops his head a second, adds a thick third digit and moans far too loud, so over the top it's an inch away from mortifying. But that doesn't last long. He really _can't_ wait.

In a few seconds, he's in Sam's lap again and this part is familiar, this part's been done all over his apartment and the office and a few other places he'd never cop to. As ever, Sam's huge hands are on Dean's ass, guiding and spreading him open so the slide down is easier. Relatively easier; Sam's still fucking huge and Dean still fucking whines at the stretch.

And he still goes down too fast.

Sam doesn't buck up into him though, which is different. It brings Dean back to the reality of their little game.

“Good, huh?” Dean pants out, composure magically regained while he grinds on Sam, slow and controlled except that he can't stop fucking _clenching_ because nothing can change how big Sam's dick feels in him, how absolutely perfect.

He wants to put on more of a show, but...but it's impossible past a few minutes. In no time, Dean's bouncing fast, sweating and reeling and Sam's gripping his hips vice-tight, bruising him in ways he can't wait to see later. But it's still all Dean, even when Sam haltingly warns him he's coming; Dean manages to slow down then, the last vestige of teasing, but when he feels Sam's breath hitch and his dick fatten inside, when Dean feels him fucking pulse, that's it for him too, crashing all the way down so it feels like he's never been _this_ split open while he spills on Sam's expensive shirt with a ragged cry.

The usual long minutes pass with just breath and unintelligible noises, sweaty nuzzling and pawing until Dean's full ass starts clenching again and Sam's the one laughing that time.

“Slut,” he says.

Dean can't disagree with that like, ever. But he shushes Sam, kisses him long and lazy and he starts to move again, slow, so so slow.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sam leaves cheesy pick-up lines all over the place, and Dean is totally falling.

Dean's sleeping off a long-lunch-hangover, some four-whiskey affair with a boss from out of town and, apparently, 1964. He's sleeping it off in his chair, head tipped back; he snores himself awake and pretends he wasn't doing that in the first place. _So_ embarrassing, he'd never fall asleep at work in the middle of the afternoon.

But he kind of wants to sleep until quitting time anyway.

Not good.

He gets up fast, head kind of spinning, and opens his door. The quiet hum of the office doesn't really help. But, his in-box is packed.

On top, there's a yellow sticky note in a precise scrawl Dean knows pretty well.

That scrawl leaves notes around his apartment increasingly often; apologies for swiping his yogurt, using his razor, stretching out his t-shirt.

So he's obviously more interested in _that_ than any of the files or envelopes. He snaps it off and has to squint to read it and -

_What the fuck._

'Is it hot in here or is it just you?'

Dean reads it again and snorts out a laugh.

Oh, Sam. Underneath all that hugeness and the hottest dominant streak _ever_ , there's also this silly adorable puppy that Dean's just getting his first glimpses of, and he really, _really_ likes it.

The dumb note makes him grin and kind of glow too.

“Alright, Sam,” he mutters, rifling to the rest of the files underneath.

More sticky notes.

'I lost my number, can I borrow yours?'

Dean rolls his eyes.

'If I told you you had a beautiful body would you hold it against me?'

“Oh my god,” Dean laughs, crumples that one up into a ball and throws it at the window. Horrible, just awful.

'What time are you due back in heaven?'

Okay, that's _enough_.

His phone dings the email noise and surprise, surprise; there's a bunch more. Dean scrolls and scrolls and he has to sit down because they get more and more ridiculous, shit he wouldn't have ever dreamed of hearing, given the advanced level of Sam's usual dirty talk.

But there's an cute sort of charm in these, too.

He gets a few more before the day's over.

'You've got something on your ass – my eyes.'

And, finally, terribly,

'Did you get enough sun today? Because I've got some vitamin D.'

A few minutes after that, Sam fills up his doorway, grinning and dimpled and just slightly barely shy.

“Goddammit, Sam,” Dean breaks into a grin too, laughing, shoving back from his desk.

“Too much?” Sam scrunches up his face, lightly steps inside but leaves the door open, one hand clutching the strap of his laptop bag. “I couldn't stop once I started, sorry. I'll make it up to you.”

“You better! God, I think I broke a rib laughing.” Dean grabs his stuff hastily, doesn't even finish up his spreadsheet because fuck it, he is _so_ checked out. He loops his arm into Sam's, raises onto his toes to press a kiss into his cheek. “I needed it though.”

“Glad to help. Did you have a favourite?”

Dean groans, letting his head rest on Sam's shoulder just a second while he thinks. “They were all really, really horrifying. But I think the timeless poetry of 'If you ass was snow, I'd plow it' will live on in my mind forever.”

“My legacy is intact.”

Dean grins up at him, both arms winding around one of Sam's and holy shit, he pretty much totally loves him.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sam and Dean get irresponsibly drunk at an office party and engage in some semi-public sexytimes.

Dean usually hated office parties; he could never rightly say _why_ since he loved small talk and catching up and eating on his feet. Maybe that combined with alcohol and some fairly unprofessional groping on more than one occasion did it. But this year is a little different.

He's been with Sam Wesson from tech support for a few months. A few really, really great months. And with that hulking beast glued to his side, no one is going to try anything. And nothing seems quite so dreadful.

So Dean cuts a little looser than usual. What the hell.

His first drink is peachy-pink and full of gin and Sam rolls his eyes when Dean tells him it's called a _greyhound_.

“It should be called 'I take it up the ass' though, I think,” Sam nudges him in the side and orders a whiskey.

And after three rounds of this, and three rounds of increasingly inappropriate jokes about Dean's masculinity, he caves.

“Order for me then,” he needles Sam, expects some kind of joke but nope. Nothing. Sam raises his eyebrows and does that unnerving sweep of his eyes over Dean, the one that makes him shiver every time.

“Fine,” Sam shrugs one shoulder, shoves Dean gently towards a small crowd, “Go mingle, I'll surprise you.”

Dean narrows his eyes, suspicious, but he did kind of ask for it. And if it stops the jokes, it'll be worth it. He blows Sam a kiss and nudges his way into the conversation. It's about work, even though it's a party; it usually is. In a few minutes, Sam is back at his side, shoving a tall glass at him with a straw and a lime and a disturbing six – no, seven cherries.

 _Ass_.

Dean scowls, mostly playfully, and sips at it, hyper-aware of Sam staring at him, eyes totally fixed on his mouth. Well, fuck that, Dean purses his lips harder, goes all slow coming back up and Sam just smirks, swirling his own glass around in his hand. Still whiskey.

Whatever he's got for Dean? Dean nearly chokes; it's like, sweet and sour and strong and he is _so_ in over his head. Already three drinks in though, so he swallows like it's nothing and pops a cherry into his mouth, tugging off the stem and throwing it at Sam.

It's agreed upon by everyone nearby; Smith and Wesson are far too adorable together.

Two more rounds and it's less adorable.

Everything hits Dean at once, in the middle of a some room-wide toast. He lists into Sam, gently stumbling into his side and laughing quietly, muttering, “Whoa, Sam.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam says low, laughing too, a hand snaking around Dean's waist, “Drunk.”

“No way. Can't be. That was like...” Dean tries to tally up those drinks but damned if he can remember now. Wasn't that many. Was it? “Like, four drinks.”

“Five,” Sam corrects him, and his voice is a little thick too. He waves the half-full glass in his hand and, “And a half. Five and a half. So six.”

“Six and I'm hammered?” Dean says, and he knows it's too loud the second it comes out; people turn to look at him and Sam's grinning.

“Are you actually hammered?” Sam asks, incredulous, wheeling Dean away while the toast continues behind them. There's a few far corners in this bar and they're crammed into one in no time.

Dean considers the question. He went to college. He knows hammered. He's not seeing double yet, he's just...unsteady in a lovely way and everything's kind of shiny and barely fuzzy, so, “No,” he shakes his head, thoughtfully chasing down his straw in the glass, “No, I'm not hammered. I'm seriously getting there though.”

“Don't you wanna know what I got you?”

Dean considers that too, peering into the glass; there's less cherries than the first and second times. Or maybe he ate them all. God, that's a lot of sugar. “Nope,” he says, grinning up at Sam, “I trust you.”

“Well, drink up,” Sam raises his eyebrows in this delicious challenge that Dean has never been able to refuse.

Straw be damned, he downs the thing – drink number six – in a few big mouthfuls that leave him gasping until Sam kisses him and he can breathe in that air instead, hot and whiskey-soaked. Between that, the kiss and the chugging, he's a little dizzy. But Sam grabs at his waist and tugs him close and that keeps him up enough.

“C'mon,” Sam goes from kissing him to pulling him away in a second, or maybe it might be longer, Dean's kind of gone vague with the time right now.

All he knows is Sam's hand squeezing his and he's careening after his big body through dim halls, down some stairs, and he's laughing, they both are, until Sam slams him against a wall and knocks all the air out. Sam spins him around, smashes his face against the wall, smooth wood, and attacks his neck. No other word for it.

Dean kind of doesn't know where they are, whether it's a hallway or a washroom or a closet. Kind of doesn't care either; nothing gets him harder than Sam's body shoved against his and his teeth scraping at his sensitive neck.

Then Sam's on the floor and Dean's pants are around his ankles and Sam's got his big, big hands digging into Dean's waist, pulling his ass out and nuzzling against it and Dean is going to fucking _die_. Sam isn't even talking and that usually ruins Dean the most but tonight, it's his teeth, his mouth sweeping all across his ass and then bending him deeper, pulling him apart.

Dean swears, groans excessively loud but there's no reprimand so he doesn't quiet down, clearly doesn't need to. Or Sam doesn't care.

“Want it bad, huh?” Sam mutters, lips brushing against Dean's hole already, like there's no time to waste and okay, depending on where they are, maybe there isn't. Sam twists his well-practised tongue in, sends Dean swearing even louder.

Probably not even words anymore, but it feels a thousand times hotter somehow, now that he's all fucked up and slammed face-first against a wall. Sam doesn't give him time to adjust either, not like usual; he's growling while he licks Dean apart and nothing has ever felt so incredibly good. Not until Sam gets a hand on his dick, at least.

Dean very easily loses focus with all of that going on, and his head spinning too-too fast to concentrate on any of it. It could be minutes here, pinned against the wall while Sam tongue-fucking him and jerking him off in long, tight strokes. Could be hours too. It's a timeless climb and Dean stays at the top for fucking ever, thighs quivering, eager, opening hole clenching around the deft sweep of Sam's tongue.

He could probably stay there forever and liquefy his brain.

But Sam has other ideas.

He wrings out Dean's dick and replaces his tongue with two fingers, plunging and curled and _oh god_ , just right. Dean shouts, he knows he shouts because it makes his throat go hoarse, and he comes fast and hard in Sam's hand and on the wall, long copious stripes dripping everywhere. He can't hear a thing around his heart hammering, can barely even _feel_ except that he's a ball of nerves so maybe it's that he feels too much, god, he has no idea.

Then Sam's big body drapes up over his and Sam stumbles a bit, two, three times, his hard cock slapping against Dean's still held-out ass, laughing breathlessly against his ear.

“Fucking drunk,” Dean slurs at him, reaching behind to grab Sam's hip, trying to guide him in while they're both giggling stupid. “Just fuck me already.”

Sam finally grabs him hard, fingertips bruising his hips for sure this time, and the loud, bone-shaking grunt against his neck followed by the slick, hot stretch of Sam's cock spearing him open, those are the last two things Dean remembers of the night.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dean is Sam's sugar daddy, with some fluff and feels too.

Dean whistled as Sam turned around, showing off his brand new jeans, perfectly tailored, and one of the ten or so t-shirts, all v-necks, in a very specific cut. Dean spared no expense anymore, not for Sam. He hadn't for months and he was getting entirely too comfortable with throwing money at Sam.

And Sam was getting really comfortable taking it.

“You really look amazing,” Dean sort of sighed, sinking back into the couch with a half-smile.

It felt strange, having Sam all to himself but sometimes not really _having_ him.

But other times, it was really really easy to forget.

Like with Sam grinning so sweet at him, his eyes bright and the faintest blush of color in his cheeks, that sent Dean's heart hammering in his chest and it didn't even matter what they were together for.

“Thanks,” Sam accepted, but rolled his eyes, the usual self-defense no matter how stunning he looked. “Uh, these are really the most comfortable jeans I think I've ever owned.”

“And they fit better too, don't they?”

“Hmm, I dunno,” Sam drawled, making a show of walking closer. He stopped in front of Dean and turned around again, stared at him over his shoulder and bit at his lip. “What d'you think?”

Dean sat up quick and latched onto Sam's slim hips, hooked his thumbs into the empty beltloops. He hesitated a second, wondered like he sometimes did if _this_ was too tender, if this was the one move that would send Sam running for the hills.

There wasn't a worse feeling in the world.

He gambled and nuzzled at Sam's side, his firm skin warm through the soft t-shirt. Dean felt his muscles twitch against his cheek but Sam didn't pull away. Good. _Good_.

“I think they fit perfectly,” Dean muttered against Sam, gently tugging at his beltloops. “I think you're beautiful right now, Sam.”

He stayed after that too; Dean felt his sigh though.

“Just right now?”

“Probably always,” Dean answered, too honest and he hadn't thought about, hadn't calculated, but Sam slid one big hand into Dean's hair, wrapping into the short strands, tugging his head up.

“You're too good to me,” Sam said, not for the first time, eyebrows drawn.

“You let me. I like it. I like seeing you enjoy things like this.”

“What else?”

Dean's nerves surged, squirmed in the pit of his stomach and Sam pulled harder at his hair.

“What else do you like, Dean?”

That question felt so loaded, so much more than a month or two ago when the only confession amounted to a whining plea about needing it up the ass or wanting to get slapped in the face with dick.

But now...

Fuck. Things were getting complicated; Dean was _making them_ complicated.

He swallowed hard and tight given Sam's hold on his hair and the slightly painful position and opted for, “I like how good you fuck me.”

“Yeah, you do,” Sam agreed. He let go of Dean's hair and turned around, pushed Dean back with one hand in the middle of his chest. “Guess I owe you, huh? What've you got in mind for tonight?”

Dean stared open-mouthed, gaping like he'd never seen this before. Somehow, it always felt like the first time, always got him going so good when Sam shoved him around even a little.

But he wasn't finished with the gifts. And this next one was cranking flop sweat on his forehead and burning a hole in his brain.

“Actually...one last thing.”

“Oh,” Sam's face went from dark to surprised, to curious-adorable in a second, “Like...”

“Like another present. If you want.”

Sam tried to play coy sometimes; Dean saw it and liked it and appreciated it but the eager puppy enthusiasm softened him in ways he'd never expected and Dean fucking coveted that.

Sam smiled wide and thumped down beside Dean on the couch, their knees jamming together. Sam inched one arm under Dean's back, played with the neatly trimmed hair at the base of his head, fluttered along his skin enough to raise up goosebumps.

Dean should have planned this better; he reached into his pocket and felt Sam tense immediately but it wasn't worth explaining for the second the reveal would take. He pulled out some keys on a shiny new ring. He'd tacked his apartment keys on too, in a dire fit of hope he regretted now.

“It's uh, it's outside,” he babbled, smiling strained and _god_ he just hoped Sam took them, hoped this wasn't as big of a deal as it felt like.

“What's outside?” Sam asked slow, squinting at the keys, not moving to take them.

“Okay, so it's brand new. It's a Harley, it's got like, two seats so...so we can do whatever together but we don't have to, it's really just for you, so - “

“Back up. What model?”

“Electra Glide?”

“No way.”

Dean couldn't read that; he hated it, the semi-incredulous look, the way Sam's eyes darted to the keys. “It's blue?”

He wasn't going to take it. For a sick handful of seconds, Dean was so, so sure he wasn't going to. Completely sure he'd screwed himself over, he'd lost the only good thing in his personal life and maybe his _entire_ life because he was overzealous. Because he wasn't thinking with his dick anymore and it was fucking him over.

Sam finally took them though, and Dean sighed out, finally managed to relax a second. “What're these other keys?” Sam poked at them, then ran his fingers over the keys for the bike.

“My place? You're just here so much.”

He _was_. It'd started out very regimented and planned, dinner on these nights, shopping on these. Once a week sleeping over, the occasional work-place blow job. That for months but they'd slipped and now it was just...whenever. All the time, every time.

“Yeah, I kinda am,” Sam said, long fingers dancing over the apartment keys this time, pressing his thumb into the jagged teeth. He stared at them thoughtfully, all eyebrows and gnawed lip.

“And I really don't want you taking the bus to work anymore. That's part of it. I thought about cars of course but then I remembered talking about this and I thought...well, I thought about how hot you'd look on it, to be honest.”

“Yeah?” Sam tilted his head, eyes lit up again. “Two-seater, huh? So you can get up behind me?”

Dean puffed out a short breath, dizzy with the breakneck change. He licked at his lips and nodded because _fuck_ , it was true and Wesson read him like a book. “Yeah, I did think about that.”

Sam pocketed the keys real fast, very smooth, winding his arm back around Dean's shoulders, gripping hard at one thigh and sliding even closer. He got that _look_ again, dark and predatory. “Are you gonna rub off on my back while I drive you around? You never really get to go fast in that Prius, so...”

Dean sighed, melted, let his legs fall open under Sam's hand stroking ever higher up his thigh. “I definitely wanna go fast.”

“Kinda think we already are.”

Dean grumbled a noise, brief discomfort rippling through him again. But it never landed, because Sam slapped his leg and then tugged him up, herding him towards the door already.

“Let's just do it,” he urged Dean from behind and yeah, Dean was into that, stepping fast into danger and ridiculous boner-inducing situations, halfway out the door when he remembered the _other_ other thing.

He stopped, raised up on his toes to kiss Sam quick. “Stay here, one more thing.”

Dean opened the closet door, heart pounding again; he'd hung up the leather jacket with as much reverence as touching Sam, stroked the supple sleeves over and over, picturing Sam's huge body draped with the soft brown leather. And the helmet stood out on the top shelf as the only thing there.

“Well?” Dean smiled hopefully and Sam did his eye-roll again, accepting and playfully rebuking him all in one. He memorized how it looked when Sam pulled it on, how the leather creaked quietly, the faces Sam made looking at himself in the hall mirror.

Sam didn't say anything for a long time. Didn't have to. Dean got hard just staring at him turning around for the mirror and ostensibly for him too. He'd had Sam's measurements for some time, and this was the most outstanding product of that.

It was perfect, hugged his tiny waist, cradled the broad shoulders and muscled arms and then all of that was jammed against _Dean_ , against the wall. Sam-smells and leather smells mixed together, and then the taste of him too, insistently pushing Dean's lips apart to tongue his mouth deeply. Dean whined into it, flattened into the wall.

Sam ground against him and he wasn't hard but that didn't matter, not all the time. “You wanna go for a ride?” he growled, nearly into Dean's mouth, deep and resonant.

“God, yes,” Dean panted, embarrassingly eager but Sam knew that about him already, if he knew nothing else.

“I'll take you wherever you want,” Sam told him, with just the faintest hint of promise that made Dean's knees go weak, made him wonder how one-sided this all was, if at all.

But also? He didn't fucking care the second he saw Sam straddling the brand new bike. This, whatever it was, was worth the price tag.

 


End file.
